There came a point in which I had become hard, cynical, dripping with sarcasm and disgust and inhaling creativity like an eight ball at any moment's notice. I had become immune to the guilt trips and the complaints of "All I can draw are stick figures." I was slowly loosing the grip of those certain reins, the reins of my past. I had been gripping them so hard for so long, pattens should have been imprinted onto my hands, and they should have been sweaty and shaking. Instead, I glanced at them in passing and saw two white canvases. I saw the carefully drafted and laid plans I had decided for myself, all of the possibilities of my future self, and all possibilities of you in writing. Of course, I still aspire for that final comeback, the convenient affair in which I inform you of my brilliant success. But the thought of you seems as monotonous and vague as that one dream I had when I was six years old. Thoughts of you have been replaced with the obscene, vulgar, surreal, and non-representational thoughts of myself and the present generation encompassing me. Right now, you are extinct. And if you decide to suddenly ressurect, naturally I will eat those words. I'd rather upgrade this model, and replace you with dreams of cathedrals and my monumental schemes of the cure to all things inadequate in life.